


lovers and madmen have such seething brains

by septmars



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 03:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13285917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septmars/pseuds/septmars
Summary: The Master Codebreaker had uploaded his personal identity to a public node and dared anyone to crack it. DJ took up the challenge.





	lovers and madmen have such seething brains

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from A Midsummer's Night Dream, Act 5, Scene 1.
> 
> Fill for [this](https://swkink.dreamwidth.org/2696.html?thread=24968#cmt24968) kink meme prompt.

Canto Bight was abuzz with the news: the Master Codebreaker has uploaded his whole personal history to a public node, encrypted, and anyone who could crack it was welcome to take his red ploom-bloom and his title.

Everyone was eager to try, if only for the thrill of saying that one has beaten the Master on his own game. Three weeks passed and none could crack the second layer of encryption, much less the next eight layers. Then three weeks became three months with little progress to show. It seemed everyone in the galaxy had accepted that the Master was not going to lose his title anytime soon, and the hype eventually died down.

DJ, for once, didn’t get caught up in the commotion. He spent the last three months in a Mandalorian prison after getting caught trying to steal one of their precious armours. He was a slippery man, yes, but the Mandalorians were even more slippery still and it took him every ounce of his ingenuity to free himself. No matter. He regarded the last three months as a sort of vacation.

An extended vacation. With lots of beating.

But he was back in home sweet home, looking forward for his usual drink at Gred’hil. Canto Bight was a lustrous place of excess and luxury—but every city had its underbelly. Canto Bight’s just happened to be far away from the glamorous waterfront casinos and hotels, in a valley derisively called the Pits. And Gred’hil was a Pits institution, a bar crammed between two shady tenements owned by a retired Bothan spy, serving cheap drinks and beat-up slot machines to the city’s poorer and seedier denizens.

It was DJ’s favourite place to go to after a job or a hard day’s work. You could overhear a lot of things in Gred’hil. In his line of work, information was worth its price in gold.

“One Red Alderaan, Raer,” DJ said, plopping down to his usual seat at the bar.

“DJ. Haven’t seen you around in a while. Been busy?” Raer handed him his drink.

“B-busy enjoying Mandalorian hospitality.” DJ grinned and sipped his drink. Relished its sharp tang and burst of freshness.

No one could make a better Red Alderaan than Raer, not even the bartenders down at Bantha Traxx, where it first appeared on the menu. Rumour ‘round the Pits was that it was Raer himself who created the drink when he worked there as a bartender, an undercover job for the spynet, but like anything concerning his days in the spynet, Raer said little.

DJ didn’t care a lick for those talks. A good drink was a good drink was a good drink. Raer’s Red Alderaan was sharp yet refreshing, perfect after a stay in jail.

“You ain’t heard the news, then?”

“What news? New casino opening? B-b-broom boys staged a riot? Supreme Leader d-d-died? Your lousy fathier finally won?”

“Fuck you.” Raer laughed. “I’ll have you know that Midnight Coruscant placed second on last week’s race. I’m close, I’m telling you. But no, it’s not about the race. It’s about the Master Codebreaker.”

“D-d-don’t tell me he finally c-croaked?”

“Nah, it’s much more interesting than that. He put up his encrypted personal info on a public node.”

DJ raised his eyebrows. “You’re k-kidding.”

“I’m not. He said anyone who could crack that encryption was free to take his stupid pin and his title. But it’s a doozy. Ten layers of twelve digits scrambled random-pattern encryption. It’s been two months and no one hasn’t breached the second layer yet.”

DJ sipped his drink. Twelve digits of scrambled random-pattern encryption. Ten layers. A _doozy_ would be an understatement. That was perhaps _the_ most complicated piece of encryption in the galaxy. Hell, even the First Order only had five layers and ten digits at most.

“You t-t-tried it yet?” DJ asked.

“Yeah. Only breached the first layer, though. Took me a week and nearly blown my damn power off.” Raer snorted. “The second layer was a hellion. Pattern completely changed, randomly-generated. Some tried to compare their pattern with others, but no luck, it was too random—if you could say that. Gave up on the second layer after two weeks of getting nowhere.”

DJ gave him a sardonic smile. “N-Not even an alumni of the great Spynet could crack it, eh?”

Raer shrugged. “I’m more of a cultivator than a codebreaker. Besides, talking is easy. Why don’t you try it if you’re so confident? The challenge only runs for six months, so you have three months left.”

It was DJ’s turn to shrug. “I might.” He gulped down the last of his Red Alderaan. Tossed a couple of coins on the bar, enough to cover his tab and more. “Thanks for the d-drink, Raer, I’ll see you later.”

Three months? He could do it in two weeks.

—

DJ’s Canto Bight hideout was shitty and noisy, a run-down place in a scummy tenement, but it served its purpose well-enough. He bought it very cheap, almost a robbery really. Sure, neighbours were sometimes, ahem, _nosy_. Nothing a few encounters with his booby traps couldn’t fix.

As a rule, DJ always threw away his encryption modules after a job (it kept the cops on their feet) except for one. The VZ-90 module was the best of its generation, a sleek little thing worth millions of credit, able to process scrambled random-pattern encryption like a charm. By now it was a little bit outdated, but DJ always liked classic things. He relished in hotwiring his VZ-90, pushing it past its limits, making it more advanced than any other modules in the market. Except, perhaps, whatever it was the Master used.

Problem was, the VZ-90 was a notorious power guzzler. It consumed enough energy in a day to fuel an entire building in a week. And code-breaking was a slow art. The machine has to take its time to descramble the pattern, analyse it, and then crack it. A good hacker could cut the time considerably, and DJ was by any measure a very good hacker, but it would still take roughly a day to break the first pattern.

Good thing his apartment was right next to a power plant. Free, easy electricity.

DJ connected his VZ-90 to the power plant’s network (some casino at the coast was going to have a nasty surprise in their next electricity bill) and began working.

Each and every code-breaker has a style, even if they don’t really realize it. DJ’s work was a rough and tumble hodgepodge of things, improvised on the fly.  The Master’s encryption was intricate and beautiful, like the red poom-bloom he wore. Tremendously difficult to crack, yes. But not impossible. Especially to someone who has extensively studied all of the Master’s past known feats.

The first layer was just like what he predicted. DJ set about to work. Tweaked the VZ-90’s configuration to make the process faster and let the machine do its own thing. In several hours, he’ll check it, tweaking it some more. But right now all he wanted was a good night’s sleep. After three months in prison, it was a luxury.

He breached the first layer in a day. Like what Raer said, the second layer was even harder than the first one. The pattern and algorithm completely changed, nothing remotely resembling the previous layer. Good. DJ liked a challenge. He would be disappointed if the Master went lazy.

It took him a good two days and a half to crack the second layer.

The next layers get progressively harder and harder. DJ camped in his room with ready-made rations and lots of fizzy sodas. Ignored all job offers that came in his comm, all calls and messages from his associates. Slept only three hours every day. Completely focused on making the Master’s flower bloom.

The final layer broke in the fifteenth day. Just a day shy from his self-imposed two week deadline. Eh. He’ll take it.

After the tenth layer was cracked, the encryption blossomed open, revealing a small personal identification file.

DJ downloaded it. It was a surprisingly small reward for such a monumental task. But the whole task was symbolic anyway.

The Master Codebreaker’s real name was Everard Morhear. Born in Chandrila to a Corellian mother and a Hapan father (so that’s where he got his looks from), thirty-seven years ago. Huh, he was older than DJ assumed. Must be that Hapan genes.

The Ma—Everard had included his address and a private node address, along with an instruction that anyone who managed to crack the encryption should first contact him through the node before visiting his residence, so his guard cybernetic dogs wouldn’t maul them. There would be a formal announcement broadcasted to the holo-Net in the galaxy, a televised hologram of the title pass-over and—wow, he really took this whole ‘be the next Master Codebreaker’ seriously, didn’t he?

Honestly, DJ didn’t care about being the next Master Codebreaker. It sounded like a real drag. The money’s excellent, but all that pomp and publicity—no. He preferred his life as it was now, living on the edge, anonymous.

But would he just end it like this? Fifteen days of hard work, and he just…let it go?

Not bloody likely.

DJ went to the fresher. Dressed in his best clothes, combed his hair for once. Set out to Everard Morhear’s residence.

He might not want to be the next Master, but he sure as hell was going to reap his reward.

—

Like any other things in his life, the Master Codebreaker chose to only the best for his residence. His palatial townhouse was located on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the racetrack, only a couple of minutes’ walk from the Canto Casino. Although DJ had passed this townhouse many times in an attempt to cultivate any information about the Master, only now did he notice the subtle intricate Hapan carving on the grand door.

DJ smirked. The Master tried to cloak his identity as much as possible, but it seemed even he couldn’t resist showing some part of him.

Then, DJ heard the growls. Four gigantic dogs appeared, half-flesh half-metal. They bared their teeth, titanium alloy and sharpened to little daggers. Ah. These must be the guard dogs.

The dogs hunched back, ready to leap.

“Wait!” DJ held his hand. “I come in p-p-peace. Want to meet Everard Morhear.”

The dogs stopped. Then, the biggest one sat on his haunches, opened his mouth.

“Everard Morhear?” it said in a static, human voice. “Where did you get that name?”

“C-c-cracked the code, see. Don’t want to be the next Master. Just want t-to meet you.”

“Hm.”

DJ waited, hands still up.

“Alright,” the dog finally said after a long silence. “You can come in.”

DJ heard a noticeable click from the grand door before it opened. The dog closed his mouth and retreated with the rest of his friends. DJ watched them until they disappeared behind the townhouse and then entered.

The Master Codebreaker had excellent taste in interior decoration. His reception room was a tasteful shade of cream, filled with all kinds of expensive filigree and furniture. DJ passed a bowl of fossilized Rhombaur eggs, worth about a million credits each. The reception room lead to a hall with a swooping grand staircase in the middle and shiny meteorite mosaic floor (forty thousand credits per square meter).

DJ listened carefully for any sounds that might signal life: footsteps, the whirs of cleaning droids, the barks of exotic pets. He didn’t hear any. Nobody was here, it seemed. Or perhaps they were all upstairs. The dog must’ve been voiced from _somewhere_ ; it couldn’t have been a pre-programmed greeting.

With nothing else to do, DJ explored the hall. There were two doors on each side of the hall, locked with a five-key biometric ID system. DJ approached the left-side door, but he couldn’t find the hidden biometric panel. After some careful searching he found the trigger-camera, hidden on the wall behind a vase of thick imitation flowers. The camera was very small, no bigger than his fingernail, with smooth volcanic glass and advanced ultraviolet technology.

DJ did not know anyone who could make a camera as small as this. The Master must’ve made it himself, scaled each part way down, craft it with patient and precise hands. _Well_ , DJ thought, _he’s called the Master for a reason_.

“You must be the one who cracked the code,” a voice came from the stairway. “The one who called me by my name.”

DJ turned. The Master Codebreaker was at the bottom of the staircase, leaning on the balustrade.  He was wearing a long fur sleep-robe, his normally slicked back hair a little tousled. Seeing the great Master in his loungewear, perhaps catching him before he’s going to sleep, was oddly intimate.

DJ licked his lips.

“Yes,” he said. “I was the one who c-cracked your c-c-code, Everard Morhear.”

The Master—Everard, he’s known now, not the master anymore—Everard smiled, one corner of his mouth quirked up. “It’s been a long time since anyone has ever called me by that name,” he said, still not moving. “But if you really cracked the code, you would have followed the instructions. Contacted me through the attached e-mail. Perhaps you didn’t really crack the code. Perhaps you discovered my identity from one of my old friends, the ones who knew me before I was the Master. There aren’t many of them still living and I’ve changed my appearance too much, but perhaps you met with them and put two and two together.”

“I d-didn’t follow the instructions b-b-because you would’ve announced it to the world. D-don’t want the publicity; just want the satisfaction of having b-b-bested you. As p-proof that I really d-did crack the encryption, your file t-t-told me to contact you on a private node called 1982harellian3774, located in Canto Bight.”

Everard’s smile got bigger.

“That’s right.” He walked towards DJ, hips swaying. “That’s the private node I specifically created for the challenge. Well done. Congratulations.”

They stood facing each other, separated only by a step. Everard still had that enigmatic smile and DJ regarded him coolly. None of them said anything for a while. Two predators appraising each other.

Everard broke the silence first.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said, voice silky as his robe. “I never got your name.”

“DJ,” DJ replied. “You can call me DJ.”

“Just DJ?”

“Just DJ.”

“DJ.” Everard mulled over the syllables, tasting the name like champagne. He smiled again. More playful, this time. More dangerous. “Well, DJ,” he purred. “If you don’t want to be the next Master Codebreaker, what do you want as your reward?”

It was DJ’s turn to smile.

“A d-dinner,” he said. “One dinner with you.”

Everard laughed, a throaty, rich sound. “So late in the night?”

“It’s a small price to pay to keep your title. Besides,” DJ lowered his voice. Leaned further to Everard. “A man with your means wouldn’t find it hard to arrange a meal on a short notice.”

Everard nodded slowly. “Very well. Dinner it is. You’re already dressed for it, anyway.”

He raked his eyes all over DJ. When both of their eyes met, he smiled. That damned smile.

—

Everard led him to the left door, the one with the trigger-camera hidden behind the flower vase. The camera moved when they approached and Everard bent his head a little, allowing the camera to scan his retina. When the camera confirmed his identity, a small panel appeared from the table holding the flower vase.

So _that’s_ where he kept the panel. DJ was searching for it on the walls and hadn’t really thought of it hidden in the table. Everard got his title for a reason.

“Ingenious p-p-placement,” DJ commented.

“Thank you,” Everard replied, placing the heel of his left hand on the biometric panel. “I spent a lot of time designing that table.”

The panel beeped its approval and the door swung open. DJ followed him into an opulent dining room, decorated in shades of cream and gold. Everard, it seemed, did not entertain many people here: there were only one small table and two chairs. A small alcove was separated from the dining room by an archway. The kitchen, DJ guessed. A powered-off protocol droid sat near the archway. Everard turned it on.

“Funny, thought someone like you would have a whole army of servants waiting at your beck and call,” DJ observed.

“Humans are notorious gossips,” Everard said absent-mindedly. “I spend most of my time in the casino, anyway. No use in having strangers milling about the house.” He flashed a grin to DJ. “In fact, you’re the first person in a long time to have dinner here.”

“I’m honoured.”

The dinner was going to be a simple affair of wine and main course, Everard announced with a rueful air. His protocol droid was not programmed to do more than that.

“But,” he added. “The wine is very good.”

The protocol droid served it in crystal goblets. DJ swirled his glass, inhaling the scent before taking a sip. The wine was, indeed, very good. Magnificent, in fact. Full-bodied and earthy with a fruity tang.

“Buillion Rouge ’48,” Everard said with a self-satisfied smirk. “The best vintage in the market.”

DJ didn’t say anything. Sipped more of his wine.

The protocol droid came back to serve dinner. Seared fillet mignon with roasted vegetables and white sauce. A simple affair compared to the extravagance of the Casino’s fare, but much fancier than DJ’s usual meal of greasy rations and cheap beer.

Everard raised his wineglass. “A toast,” he said, in the pompous tones of a Casino pit-boss. “To good health and prosperity.”

“Whatever you say,” DJ replied, inclining his head.

Everard laughed, taking his bad manners as a quirk and not an affront.

The protocol-droid may not be programmed to make more than one course of a meal, but it was a damn good course. The meat was so tender that DJ’s knife went through it like butter. The vegetables were roasted to perfection, bringing a light earthiness to counteract the richness of the steak. The sauce was flavourful, but not too much, so as to not take the spotlight from the rest of the dish. DJ had to force himself to eat in small bites and not scarf the whole thing down.

“So, DJ,” Everard said, between bites. “What is it that you do?”

DJ shrugged. “Oh. You know. Security consultation, mostly. And some odd jobs here-and-there.”

“In other words, you’re a freelance code-breaker who does smuggling on the side. Right?”

DJ smiled. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“No, no.” Everard waved his fork. “None of that nonsense tonight. We’re all adults here. We know what’s going on behind the scenes. I’m the last person in this galaxy to give a sanctimonious lecture about using your code-breaking powers for good, anyway. So, tell me. Am I right?”

“Well, I’ve done some jobs cracking security for p-p-people. And some transp-p-port jobs too. Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Everard leaned back on his chair, satisfied. “How did you manage to crack my encryption? Even my closest rivals couldn’t do it. And I would’ve heard if there were someone who nearly bested my ability.”

“Like I said, I d-don’t like p-p-publicity,” said DJ. “Kept my p-p-profile low. Safer that way. And p-p-people usually already had a misconception when they saw me. Don’t look like the typical hotshot codebreaker, see.”

“Indeed you don’t.” Everard smiled. A predatory kind. Once again, his eyes took in DJ in a way that forced him to stamp a shiver of anticipation. “But you didn’t answer my question. _How_ did you break my encryption?”

“Every codebreaker has a signature,” DJ explained. He never divulged his methods to anyone, but he figured no harm was done if he told Everard. Besides, they were peers now. “A style that they use when c-c-cracking or encrypting. Some use blunt attacks to force the system to concede. Others are more elegant, a virus slipped into the cracks. Some structure their c-c-code haphazardly, others are way more organized. I’ve studied you to know your signature style.”

“I didn’t know that you were a fan.” Everard smirked.

“Figured it was a good career choice to know how the best in the business works.” DJ shrugged. “When I saw your encryption, I knew your style right away. It wasn’t easy, but also not imp-possible, to c-crack your code. Gave myself two weeks. Took me fifteen d-days.”

Everard whistled, low. “Impressive. But I had the challenge broadcasted for three months by then. Why didn’t you crack it sooner?”

“I was, ah, preoccupied,” DJ conceded. “Took an unintended break. In a nice Mandalorian p-p-prison. Didn’t hear about your challenge until I got out.”

“A real rogue, are we?” Everard’s smile was wicked and made DJ’s stomach burned with something primal and familiar. “What was it, you got caught trying to steal one of their armours? Figures.” He said when he saw DJ’s expression. “Thought someone as accomplished like you wouldn’t fail so easily.”

“Everyone has their off days.”

They were chatting so amiably that they both didn’t realize they’d finished their meal for quite a while. The protocol droid detected their empty plates and rolled in to take them away.

“Well,” Everard said, not without a hint of sadness in his voice. “That ends our night, I suppose.”

“Was thinking of d-d-dancing. You know, to work off the meal,” said DJ. Underneath the table, he crossed his fingers. For good luck.

Everard watched him with an amused expression. “Our deal is only for a dinner,” he reminded him.

DJ waited for him to continue.

“But,” Everard said after a pause. “I suppose you deserve a bonus for cracking my code so fast. I hope you like Benny and the Banthas.”

“They’re my favourite band.” DJ grinned.

—

Of course Everard would have an old-fashioned audio system set up. He was just _that_ kind of man.

“Analogue just sounds much better,” Everard said by lieu of an explanation. He pulled out a Benny and the Banthas record from a shelf.

“ _Electric Boots_?” DJ raised a brow when he saw the record sleeve.

“Why? Don’t like it?”

DJ shook his head. “You look more of a self-t-titled kind of a person.”

It was Everard’s turn to raise a brow. “Is that an insult?”

“No, no, no. Just. G-g-guys like you usually start with the self-titled, worked their way down, and found themselves disap-p-pointed.”

“Oh, you’re one of _those_ people.” Everard rolled his eyes. He slid the record on his gramophone. Soon, the distinctive sounds of Benny’s galactic swing filled the room and DJ forgot what he was about to say.

They both stood awkwardly, staring at each other. Neither had any clues on how to proceed.

“Should we dance the waltz or something?” Everard  said after a long moment of silence. He looked sheepish, and twenty years younger. Like a teen, on his first date.

“I don’t know. Don’t have much experience in this field,” DJ replied, a little self-deprecatingly. “How d-do you usually do it?”

“Well, usually I court my lovers with food and wine and they’ll be putty in my hands, but we already did the wining and dining.” Everard regained his confidence. Flashed DJ a dangerous smile. “Perhaps we could skip this and go straight to the main event.”

Privately, DJ welcomed his offer. Publically, he said blandly, “perhaps we could use a little more wining.”

Everard looked a little disappointed, but he didn’t say anything more when he called the protocol droid. It came a couple of minutes later with a fresh bottle of Buillion Rouge ’48 and two glasses.

The wine warmed DJ’s belly and the music relaxed his soul. He felt loose, sloppy. Comfortable. His survival instincts warned him that he was playing a dangerous game, letting his guard down like this, but DJ ignored it. There’s amazing alcohol, good music, and a wicked man; an exceedingly rare combination of events. DJ wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass by.

Soon, Everard and DJ began swaying to the beat, a little drunk.

“So,” DJ said, tapping his fingers to the music. “How d-d-did you manage to get into this field?”

“Getting a bit personal, are we,” said Everard drily, but he didn’t look offended. He took a sip from his glass. “What the hell. You already know my name, anyway. I got in like any other code-breaker, I guess. Cracked into a system and found that hey, this is something I could do.”

“What was the first system that you cracked?” Oh, he was positively buzzing right now. Heady with wine.

“It was my school’s. My parents put me in a boarding school and I was bored out of my mind. So I hacked into the school’s mainframe. Changed grades here and there, for me at first, then for my friends. First time I learned that you could make good money doing this shit.” Everard paused. Looked at DJ intently. “What about you?”

“My first job? Remembered it like it was yesterday. B-b-broke into the Cantonican police system. Surp-p-prisingly easy to b-b-breach. Changed the record for some k-kid I knew in foster care.”

“You’re from here?” Everard asked, surprised.

“Why? Does it look like I’m from somewhere else?”

“I thought you were from Corellia.” Everard grinned. “My father said the best rogues come from Corellia.”

The music swelled. Without DJ realizing it, the two of them had drifted closer and closer, until they were only a hair’s breadth of each other. Their lips nearly touched and DJ could hear the beating of Everard’s heart. His eyes were hazel, DJ realized, bright hazel.

“My turn to ask,” Everard said, his breath warm on DJ’s skin. “Have you ever been with a man before?”

“Getting p-personal, are we?” said DJ and Everard chuckled. DJ could feel the rumble down to his bone. “There have been others. B-before.”

“Then I hope you don’t mind adding me to your list.”

Everard cupped DJ’s face. His hands were soft, a rich man’s hand. He leaned and kissed DJ.

His mouth, DJ found, was soft too.

—

**Coda**

When Everard woke up, DJ was gone, leaving a crumpled bedsheet in his wake. He smiled, thinking about the fun they had last night.

Then Everard promptly searched the room for bugs.

DJ was fun, but he was still a code-breaker and a smuggler. It was a security hazard to admit him in his home in the first place, and Everard had gone and fuck him. He let himself be taken by an intriguing man with a roguish smile. Sloppy and complacent, that’s what he was. The two things that he promised himself he would never be.

But it’s been so long since he felt the thrill of a puzzle…

Well. Perhaps he could afford to be indulgent once in a while.

A thorough scan of the whole house yielded no bugs except his. And all the important areas showed no logs of access. He would have to conduct a deep security review to make sure everything’s fine, but that can wait. Right now, he wanted to gamble.

Everard got dressed and descended to the dining room. Today’s breakfast was a simple affair of poached eggs and ham. He ate it, alone, like usual. Yet today he was overcome with a kind of melancholy. Was his dining room always this…empty?

Everard shook his head. It was not like him to dwell. He finished his breakfast and head out. Stopping when he reached the entrance hall.

He looked at his tray of Rhombaur eggs. There were supposed to be four of them, but now there’re only three. The last egg had been replaced by a scrap of note, written in a messy scrawl.

_Might not want to put these in the entrance. Makes it easy to steal._

**Author's Note:**

> I made up the Rhombaur eggs thingy, wanted to have a SW Universe equivalent to Faberge eggs. 
> 
> Also, this fic has been stewing for almost three (!!!) weeks in my computer. Procrastination will do that to ya.


End file.
